Page 35 of Kill Your Darlings

“When did you even talk to him?”

Wendy told Thom about the whole conversation the previous night. As she spoke, he found himself fixated on the cords of her neck, particularly prominent either because she was mad, or because she’d aged and he was just now noticing.

“But they won’t actually find anything?” he said, when Wendy was done, hoping he didn’t sound like a child looking for reassurance.

“Of course not. We always knew the family would suspect me. But they can’t prove anything. There’s nothing to worry about, so long as you don’t say anything stupid.”

Thom’s stomach roiled and he got up, told Wendy he was going to the bathroom. He felt terrible, although that might have been the result of the celebratory whiskey sour he’d drunk the night before when his trivia team—the Goose Life—had a come-from-behind win. That seemed like a hundred years ago.

When he came back into the kitchen, he apologized to Wendy, who was putting on her coat to go to work.

“Maybe you should drink at home for a while,” she said.

“I’ll drink less. Or not at all. I need to anyway. What are we going to do about this guy?”

“I’m going to take care of him. And now that we know who he is, we can just refuse to talk with him. There’s nothing to worry about. Besides, I don’t think it’s that big a deal that you were in Texas at the time. To him either. He’s more interested in a dead woman that Bryce was probably sleeping with.”

“What?” Thom said.

“Sorry, I forgot that part. Alexandra Fritsch, I think. She was a college student who was possibly even involved in prostitution who died the same time as Bryce did. I have no idea what that might have to do with anything. You okay?”

“I’m fine. I drank too much last night.”

“I have to go. I’m late for a meeting.”

After Wendy had left, Thom went to the bathroom and was violently ill.

iii

The first thing Wendy did when she got to her office was cancel the all-staff meeting—a brainstorming session for the new mission statement—a meeting that could easily be put off for a while. Instead, she closed her office door, opened up her laptop, and tried to remember the name of the woman Stan the detective had been talking about. She put in a search for “Fritsch” and “Lubbock,” and the story came up. Alexandra Fritsch had been a student at Caprock College who was stabbed to death on August22, 1992, the same day that Bryce had drowned. Her mind reeled with possibilities. Was Alexandra somehow with Bryce the night he died? It didn’t make any sense. She had died in Lubbock, while he had been home in Happy Lake.

What was most concerning to her was Thom’s face when she had mentioned the woman’s death. Nothing in his expression had changed, but he’d turned white, the blood just draining away. And in that moment she wondered if he had not told her everything that had happened in 1992. A door opened inside of her, a door to a room that had a hundred possibilities. They were meant to tell eachother everything, Thom and her. No secrets. And now she had to wonder if there had been a witness? And if there had been, why hadn’t Thom told her about it? She felt her body tensing, so she dropped her shoulders, took a breath, and told herself that it was entirely possible that the bloodless expression on Thom’s face had more to do with how much he’d had to drink the night before. She’d seen him on enough hungover mornings to know that he spent half the day fighting nausea until it was time for his first drink. Still, that version of events was not as convincing to her as the version in which Thom had concealed something major about what had happened in Texas. Wendy thought about getting back in her car, driving to the house, and demanding that he tell her everything. That was what she would have done ten years ago. They were in it together, after all, for better or worse. But some part of her was worried that Thom couldn’t handle whatever it was that might have happened. And she wasn’t quite sure that she even wanted to hear the truth. She’d rather just solve the problem.

She dug into her purse and pulled out the card she’d gotten the night before. All it said was: “Stanley Benally, Security Consultant,” and then a phone number. She wondered if he was an actual accredited private investigator. His title seemed to suggest otherwise. She called him and arranged a meeting.

That afternoon, Thom now at the university, Wendy went home early from work and opened their bedroom safe. She took one of their gold bars, a kilogram’s worth, then decided to grab two more items she thought she might need. She’d bought the gold bars during the 2008 recession after watching their stock portfolios crater to almost nothing. She’d often thought that the bars were her version of the envelope of cash that her mother used to keep hidden in the back of the freezer.

Stan was staying at the only cheap place left on the peninsula,the Shoreview Motel, room number 19. Wendy parked across the road in the lot of a strip mall that included a convenience store, a dance studio, and the worst Chinese restaurant Wendy had ever ordered food from. She crossed the road, her purse heavy at her side, and knocked on Benally’s door. He let her in.

She’d never been inside one of the Shoreview Motel’s rooms, but it was exactly as she’d imagined it. Dark, musty-smelling, with ancient seaside prints on the wall. She sat on the single chair and Benally sat on the edge of the bed. He was wearing gray suit pants and a white shirt with a yellow sheen to it.

“I think I know what happened, but your client isn’t going to like it,” she said, hoping it didn’t sound too rehearsed.

“What’s that?”

“I was out of town, as you know, on the night that Bryce drowned. I was happy to get away from him, and he was probably just as happy to be alone. He was a piece of shit. And there’s no doubt that he was probably involved with prostitution.”

“So you do think they’re connected?”

“I have no idea. I’d never heard of the woman you mentioned. All I’m saying is it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if Bryce had been out that night, in town, drinking. I don’t think he was some kind of murderer, that he would have that in him, but maybe she accidentally died and he tried to make it look like a murder. I have no idea. And if that’s the case, then maybe he came home and drowned himself in the pool.”

Stan smiled at her, showing his terrible teeth. “Yeah, I thought of that. But that’s not what my client thinks happened.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“My client thinks that Alexandra Fritsch was a witness to what happened to Bryce and that’s why she was killed.”

“What happened to Bryce was that he stupidly fell into his ownpool and couldn’t get out. Your client is grasping at straws. And trust me, my husband had nothing to do with this. He can’t even remember he ever went to Texas.”

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